


ruthless calculus

by syncoping



Series: renegade/renegade [2]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Dom Shepard (Mass Effect), Dom/sub, F/M, Light Masochism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Sub Garrus, Vaginal Sex, garrus is kind of a bratty sub and likes being slapped around and thats canon actually, putting the S&M back into blowing off SteaM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syncoping/pseuds/syncoping
Summary: “You talk a lot of shit, Vakarian.” Shepard wriggles out of her undersuit, leans back against the glass of the fish-tank, her nude body bathed in blue light. “Why don’t you find something more useful to do with that mouth?”He cocks his head at her. “Like what? Advise the Primarch?”Shepard rolls her eyes. “On your knees, Garrus. Don’t make me tell you again.”-Because good turians follow bad orders, and deep down, some part of Garrus still wants desperately to be good.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Series: renegade/renegade [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909648
Comments: 28
Kudos: 63





	ruthless calculus

Shepard is in a terrible mood. This is not an unusual occurrence. Her temper is almost as famous throughout the galaxy as she is, and probably just as feared. Even the bootleg VI they’d made of her shouted at its users when they ignored its alerts. Garrus, under the guise of inspecting the new scratches on his armor, side-eyes her covertly. She’s scowling down at the elevator floor, one finger tapping against her vambrace. Frustration radiates off her like heat.

“Can’t believe we didn’t get our hands on that tech,” Vega says, for the third time. “All that work, for nothing.”

“I hope the Alliance looks into their intel channels after this,” Garrus says, as the elevator rises slowly. “This was a little too convenient. Feels like a leak.”

The _Normandy_ had wasted precious cycles scouring this cluster, hunting down a Cerberus research station they’d been told had been working with Reaper technology, or maybe even pieces of a Reaper. They’d found the station, and the recently-used containment equipment, and the remains of experiments that could only be described as disturbing. They had not found the technology. There had been a handful of soldiers defending the station, not enough to really put up a resistance, but enough to distract them long enough for, say, a ship carrying precious cargo to leave the station, hit the relay, and vanish to who knows where. Which meant that all the time they’d spent on this mission – time they _didn’t_ have – had been squandered.

“Definitely a leak,” Shepard mutters. She runs a hand through her hair, either not noticing the congealing blood on her gauntlet, or not caring. “Somebody tipped those scientists off. I knew Cerberus had spies in the ranks. But this …”

Garrus puts a hand gently on her shoulder. He knows how she thinks, because it’s the same way he thinks: weighing up the value of every mission against the time it takes, trying to maximize lives saved, resources gathered, progress made. The ruthless calculus of war demanded precision. There was no room for errors like this one. She doesn’t look up at him, but she does lean almost imperceptibly into his touch.

“Always worse than we think, huh? Ah, shit. Nothing’s ever easy.” The elevator pings as it grinds to a halt, and the doors slide open. James steps out onto the crew deck. When Garrus doesn’t follow, he shoots him a confused look. “You’re not gonna shower, man? Do turians not do that?”

He _is_ going to shower. In Shepard’s quarters. With Shepard. Not that Vega needs to know that. “Uh …”

Shepard intervenes, smoothly. “He’s coming up with me first,” she says. “My omnitool keeps glitching. Needs some calibrations.”

“Right,” Garrus says, awkwardly.

“Right,” says James Vega, who is blessedly obtuse. “See you, Scars. Lola.” He saunters off in the direction of the showers. Shepard watches, frowning, as the elevator door slides shut.

Garrus gives her a look. “Calibrations? _Rea_ —”

The door closes fully, with a decisive click. Shepard throws herself at him. He stumbles back against the elevator wall as she presses herself against him, taken by surprise, though he’s not _that_ surprised. When he’s frustrated, he takes it out on the firing algorithms of the forward guns. When Shepard’s frustrated, she takes it out on him. Whatever strange, tender thing lies between them now had started as a way of relieving tension, and part of it still is. He’d never thought he’d enjoy being somebody’s favourite form of stress relief, but then again, he’d never thought he’d end up in an alien’s bed. And look how that had turned out.

“We can’t,” he protests, between kisses, “not _here_. Anyone could come in.”

“Let ‘em see,” Shepard says into his mouth. She’s standing on his feet so she can reach his face more easily. She’s undoing the catches of his armor by touch.

“ _Shepard_ ,” he says, half-horrified, half-laughing. Most of the _Normandy_ ’s crew is unaware of their commander’s scandalous interspecies liaison, and in the interests of professionalism, they should stay that way. Still, he can’t seem to make himself stop touching her, metal scraping against metal. “The last thing the war effort needs is for you to get suspended for _fraternizing.”_

“This is my ship,” she snaps, “and if I want to fraternize in the elevator _I will_.” Then she yanks his head down so she can stick her tongue in his mouth from a more comfortable angle.

More comfortable for her, that is. Shepard is not a gentle woman, and she is not a gentle lover. She bites and scratches, taunts and curses, issues orders she expects him to follow with the same kind of obedience he shows her in the field. Garrus likes all this more than he’s willing to admit to himself, let alone to her. He respects Shepard’s authority more than he respects anyone else’s. Giving in to her feels natural.

He tries to keep an eye on the door as the elevator rises, torturously slow, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything else while Shepard is attempting to climb him like a tree. Eventually, with a merciful ping, the doors open onto the _Normandy_ ’s uppermost deck. Garrus staggers out backwards, crashes into the door to Shepard’s cabin, hammers the lock blindly until it turns green. She’s on him every step of the way, a wild armful, clawing at him. They leave a trail of armor pieces behind them on their way into the captain’s quarters.

Inside, he tosses her chestplate aside, grabs her waist and pulls her close. Drags the zipper of her undersuit down with his teeth. The webs of scars all across her body glow red-orange against her dark skin. In bed, sometimes, he counts them to help him fall asleep.

“Shepard,” he murmurs against her throat. “I have to tell you something. I … didn’t want to say it in front of Vega, but …”

“Yeah?” She sounds breathless.

“I won again today.” He laughs. “Six kills to five. You’re slacking, Comm-” He grunts and stumbles back as she plants a still-booted foot into his stomach.

“You did _not_ ,” she snaps. “I was keeping track. You took out those two legionaries, the centurion –”

“—that engineer, _and both of his turrets._ You’re welcome, by the way.”

She shakes her head, continues undressing. “Turrets don’t count.”

“They _do_ count. Just because you can’t charge into them –”

“It’s a kill count, not an explosion count! Turrets aren’t people, they’re machines.”

“Careful,” Garrus says, voice exaggeratedly hushed. “EDI might hear you. Anyway, the geth are machines too, and we’ve always included them, so –”

“You talk a _lot_ of shit, Vakarian.” Shepard wriggles out of her undersuit, leans back against the glass of the fish-tank, her nude body bathed in blue light. “Why don’t you find something more useful to do with that mouth?”

He cocks his head at her. “Like what? Advise the Primarch?”

Shepard rolls her eyes. “On your knees, Garrus. Don’t make me tell you again.”

He doesn’t. Even naked, Shepard is an intimidating presence. He drops to the floor in front of her, still in her undersuit and half his armor; she takes his visor off, runs her thumb along his brow-plate where it usually sits. Garrus kisses her stomach, her thighs. She’s got a bruise forming on her hip from earlier, when she’d misjudged a charge, landed badly. He nuzzles his face into her; she exhales, sharply, and puts a hand on his crest.

“Get on with it,” she says.

“Relax, Shepard,” he drawls, tugging her underwear down. “I’m getting there.” She’s already wet, and when he runs a lazy finger along her slit she shivers, moves her thighs further apart. He knows it’s just human anatomy – no guard-plates, so certain body parts are always exposed – but every time he sees her like this, some less-evolved part of his brain insists that she’s open and ready _for him_. He takes a moment just to admire it.

“What are you staring at?” she demands. “Did you forget how to –” She breaks off as his tongue parts her folds, drags over her clit. Shepard is dark brown all over, except for where she’s pink. He grips her thigh tighter, settles into a rhythm, slow and gentle. He’s always careful when he does this; human skin is soft, and his face-plates are hard and rough where he’s scarred. Shepard always insists she doesn’t care about chafing, but _he_ does.

She tilts her head back against the glass, strokes his crest and fringe, her breath coming faster and faster as he increases the pressure. He loses himself in it, for a while, in her taste, the way her hips move, the way she directs him with her hands. It’s a relief, to have the galaxy fade away, to not have to think about anything but pleasing her. He presses a fingertip just at her entrance, lifts his head for a moment to ask: “Can I—”

“Yes,” she says, immediately, and “ _Yesss_ ,” as he slips a finger gently inside her. Curls it slowly, searching for that little rough patch that always seems to –

“Ah, fuck, _fuck_!” Shepard pushes his face against her. With previous girlfriends, he’s judged his efforts by soft moans, murmurs of his name. With Shepard, he knows he’s doing a good job when she starts swearing and grabbing his fringe tight enough to snap a spike. He flicks his tongue across her hard clit, and then – as she gasps, hips twisting – pulls abruptly away.

“What are you _doing_?”

He widens his eyes at her innocently. “Just catching my breath.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Shepard bends to grab the edge of his cowl, trying to drag him forwards. “Get back here, you asshole.”

“You’re so impatient, Shepard.” He runs his fingers through the short, dark hair just above her cleft, brushes her clit lightly with his thumb. “What’s that human saying? Good things come to –”

“That was an _order_ , Garrus.”

He starts. Looks up at her. She’s glaring at him in a way that goes _straight_ to his cock. “Ah … understood, ma’am.”

Maybe he’s a prude (he reflects, as he buries his face in her cunt) but he thinks it’s probably not normal to _want_ your lover to order you around as badly as he does. Then again, nothing about their relationship has ever been normal, from the antihistamine injections they’d had to take before having sex the first few times, to the fact that their first real date had taken place high above the Presidium and involved sniper rifles. Shepard scrabbles at his fringe, grinds her clit against his nose; comes with a wordless snarl, her thighs clenching around his head as she jerks forward again and again. Just as he’s beginning to run out of oxygen, she relaxes, panting. Falls back against the glass with a groan of satisfaction.

He smirks up at her, out of breath, the lower half of his face slick. “Good enough for you?”

“Maybe,” she mutters. Her hair is a mess, sticking out at all sorts of angles. Hair is one of his favourite things about humans. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. I’m just getting started.”

“Oh? Kind of looked like you were already done.” He licks her off his fingers, quietly reveling in the startled look she gives him.

“Look at _you_ ,” she says, tilting his face up with a finger. “So much for having a stick up your ass.”

He bristles. “I never _did_. I’ve always been—”

“—an all-round turian bad-boy, yeah, I’ve heard.” She lets him go. “Why aren’t you naked yet? Get up.”

He does, moving awkwardly. He’s hard, which is an uncomfortable experience when you still have the bottom half of your hardsuit on. When he goes to remove it, Shepard smacks his hands away.

“Could do this in my sleep,” she says, popping the seals of his armor. He lets her strip him, enjoying the attention. Sighs with relief as his cock finally unsheaths fully.

“Weren’t we supposed to shower?” he murmurs.

“What’s the point,” she says, pulling him down the steps. “We’re just going to get dirty again. Might as well wait till after we’re done.”

“We could, uh. Get things done _in_ the shower.”

There’s a dangerous gleam in her eyes. She pushes him into the chair near the coffee table, where he’d sat answering his emails that morning. “I have other ideas.”

“Such as?”

“Shut up and I’ll show you.” She goes over to the closet in the wall, throws the door open. Their clothes together take up less than half of the space inside. Neither of them have much. Shepard grabs something, turns to face him, holding –

It’s the same belt she usually wears as part of her uniform. It dangles from her hand like a coiled snake. “You remember what we talked about a few nights ago?”

“Uh …” Garrus casts his mind back. There are a lot of whispered conversations in her bed, during the brief snatches of respite after the cycle’s work is done. Too bad he’s usually too exhausted to remember them clearly. “Gun mods? Whether a high-velocity barrel on your shotgun would be worth the extra weight?”

“ _No_.” She slaps the end of the belt into her palm. “About things we wanted to try. Remember? I told you I wanted to tie you up, and _you_ said yes.”

“… did I?”

Her eyes narrow. “You did. Very enthusiastically. You _do_ remember, don’t act like you don’t. What, did you think I wasn’t serious?”

He shifts on the chair, abashed.

The grin Shepard gives him is just a _little_ frightening. “Thought you’d know by now. I mean every word I say.” Then she pauses, grin faltering. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go through with it, you know. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I told you before, Shepard. You make me _nervous_ , but never uncomfortable.” He doesn’t tell her that he kind of likes it, the flutter of apprehension in his stomach whenever she suggests something like this. “And I do want it. I mean, I don’t know what exactly you have in mind, but … whatever it is, I want to try it with you.”

And that’s the truth, really. He’ll follow Shepard anywhere, do anything she wants him to, and if that means performing sexual acts that would bring shame on his ancestors, well, he’s already shamed them several times over. Shepard comes back to him, runs her hand down his shoulder. “Good,” she purrs. “Because, Garrus, I don’t think I said you could touch yourself.”

Oh, that’s right, he is doing that, almost without realizing. He moves his hand away, slowly. “I … didn’t know I needed permission, Shep—”

“It’s _Commander_.” Her voice cracks like a whip. Her fingers tighten around the muscle of his arm.

Garrus swallows. “Commander. Right. Sorry. I, uh, won’t do it again …?”

She leans close, her breath warm against his face. He wants to lean forward and kiss her, but all of a sudden, doing what he _wants_ seems like maybe not the best idea. “No. You won’t. Put your hands behind your back. No, behind the chair, too. Like this.” She positions his arms the way she wants them, then goes around behind him. Says, in his ear: “You remember what to say to get me to stop, right?”

He nods. She’d made him choose the words, so he’d gone with _Hammerhead_ for _slow down_ and _Mako_ for _stop_ , because those were the sentiments Shepard’s driving usually made him want to express. He’s never had to use them; Shepard’s good at giving him exactly how much he can take, at calculating his limits the way she does on the battlefield. She wraps her belt around his wrists, tying them securely together. Her small hand rests in his for a moment.

“Comfortable?”

Garrus tests the bonds. He’s not immobilized – could get free, with a bit of maneuvering – but using his hands for anything is out of the question. It’s … kind of nice, really, to have the choice of what to do with his hands taken away from him. “Yeah. You could make it a little tighter, actually.”

“ _Okay_ , tough guy. I just want to restrain you, not cut off your circulation.” She pauses. “Look, if your fingers get cold, or numb, or anything –”

“I’ll tell you.” He cranes his head back to look at her. “Don’t worry, Shepard. Ah – ma’am. I can take it.”

She squeezes his hand, briefly. “I was thinking of getting some rope instead, doing it properly,” she says, coming back around. “Doesn’t matter, though. This works just fine.” She appraises him, hungry-eyed.

“Don’t stare,” Garrus mumbles, suddenly shy. His shoulders are pulled back, leaving him alarmingly open.

“You look like a Fornax pin-up,” Shepard tells him. She nudges his legs apart, moves closer so she’s standing over him, their bodies not quite touching. He wants to pull her closer, and can’t.

He groans. “ _Please_ stop reminding me that magazine exists. Humans are so –”

“Yeah?” Shepard runs a proprietary hand over the hard planes of his abdomen, making him shiver. “Think carefully before you finish that sentence.”

“…adventurous.” He squirms. “Um, uninhibited.”

“That’s right.” She trails her fingers over his throat. “You know, Allers knows the editor. She could do a feature on you. It might make her career.”

“I _really_ don’t think their readers like scars as much as you do.”

“Sure they do.” She bends over him. “There was a special edition a while back. Scar-rotica.”

“There was _not_. How would you even know that? You’re— _ah_ —” Shepard runs her tongue along the side of his neck. As he shivers, she brings a hand down to his cock. Her touch is frustratingly light.

“You know,” she murmurs, “while I was in Alliance custody, I fucked myself thinking about this. About you.”

_Oh, spirits._

“It was just a fantasy,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d actually _let_ me do this. But we always seem to want the same things, huh, Garrus?” Suddenly, she looks stern. “Hey. When we weren’t together, you jerked off thinking about me, right?”

His throat is dry. “Like I’d think about anyone else.”

She laughs, running her fingers along his length. “That’s so romantic.”

“Sh— _Commander._ ” He tries to move his hips to follow her hand. “I need more than that.”

“Yeah,” Shepard says, “I know you do.” She kisses his neck, his jaw, licks the down-curve of his mandible. “I’m just trying to decide if you’re going to get it.”

“You _want_ to fuck me.” He tries to sound confident. “The sooner you –”

“I don’t think I like your tone.” She sounds menacing. He watches, mutely, as she raises her hand to his face, shiny with the slick fluid from inside his sheath. “Look. I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already so –”

In desperation, he lunges forward and bites her hand. It’s just a nip with his mouth-plates, really – he’d never actually _bite_ her, her skin is too soft to stand up to his needle-sharp teeth – but Shepard yelps anyway. The slap she gives him turns his head with its force.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Ngh,” Garrus responds, as the sting of the blow sinks in. He’d never thought he’d enjoy being slapped around, either, but … “That the best you can do, ma’am?”

Shepard catches him with a backhand. “I’ve got you tied to a chair, and you’re still talking back. _Why_?”

Well, if he’s going to mouth off, might as well keep going. “You know you love my voice.”

“Oh, please. You just want me to hit you.” She slaps him again. “Are all turians masochists, or is it just you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. His face is burning. It hurts, it feels good; those things aren’t meant to go together, but they do, and he’s straining at his bonds, without meaning to.

She grabs his chin, jerks him around to face her. Holds his head in place to hit him again. He bites back a cry. “Answer the question.”

“Just me,” he says, cracking an eye open. His ears are ringing. “You got lucky.”

Another blow, and this time he cries out. Shepard shakes her fingers out, grimacing. “Your damn plates are too hard. You hurt my hand, Garrus.”

He looks up at her, incredulously. Almost protests, but then he sees the glint in her eye – she _wants_ him to talk back, just so she can put him in his place. He settles for glaring at her in silence. Shepard smirks, scrambles into his lap.

“That’s better,” she says, getting a hand around his cock. She rubs the tip between the lips of her cunt, against her stiffening clit, not quite putting it in. Her velvety flesh against his is torture. “What’d you say earlier? _Relax, I’m getting there_. Asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. His subvocals are loud and rough with arousal. He’s clawing at the back of the chair with the frustration of not being able to touch her, talons scoring the fake leather. “I, I didn’t mean – oh _fuck_ , ma’am, _please_. Just –”

“Stop fidgeting. You’re just making it worse for yourself.” She sinks onto him in one slow movement. The feeling is indescribably good. The sound she makes is maybe even better. She rolls her hips experimentally, and Garrus struggles to free his hands, desperate to hold her. She laughs, breathless.

“I needed this,” she tells him, pushing her hair back from her face as she grinds against him. “Fuck, Garrus, I _needed_ this.” Her hand finds her clit, rubs hard and fast.

“I could do that for you,” he says, frantically.

“I bet you could.”

“I could do it _better_. Just untie me, and –”

“You said you could take it, Garrus. So take it.” She gives him a look. “If you can’t, you know what to say.”

He’s _not_ going to use the damn words. He’s the _Normandy_ ’s gunnery officer but as far as he’s concerned his _main_ duty on the ship is keeping Shepard sane and happy, and he’s _not going to use the words._ He thrusts up into her, growling, and she gets her free hand around his throat, holds him still.

“ _Don’t_ move,” she snaps. She’s not quite choking him, but the threat of it is there. “You’re going to let me ride you until I come, and _maybe_ if you behave yourself I’ll let you get off too.”

Her tone brooks no argument. He knows she’s not fucking around, either. “Yes ma’am,” he croaks, miserably.

But it’s unbearable, feeling her hot and tight around him, watching her use his cock like a toy. He occupies himself with her breasts, which he can just about reach. Garrus hadn’t known what to do with them, at first – two soft, round things positioned somewhat impractically on her chest – but the noises Shepard made when he put his mouth to them had taught him pretty quickly. Her dog tags bounce against his face as he licks at her. Shepard’s grip tightens around his throat as she moves faster and faster, cursing, her eyes on him as sharp as a hunter’s. But the lack of oxygen isn’t the only reason he’s lightheaded.

This time she comes almost silently, her breath catching in her throat, her nails digging into the soft hide at the back of his neck, scratching the plates along his spine. The feeling of her clenching around him nearly makes his eyes roll back. She collapses against him, heedless of him rock-hard inside her.

Grinding hadn’t been enough. Having her still against his chest, panting into his neck, is _so_ much worse. “Ma’am,” he says. Moves his thigh to try to rouse her. “Ma’am, I’m still …”

“Still fucking _talking_ ,” she mutters. Heaves herself up, looks him dead in the eye, and pulls off him, ignoring his horrified protests. “Maybe you don’t _get_ to come, Garrus. I don’t know why you think I should let you.”

Fuck, he’s _aching._ “But –”

She glances over his shoulder at the clock. “Anyway. How long have we been up here? I need to report to Hackett.”

He does _not_ want to think about Admiral Hackett. “I let you tie me up,” he tries. “I let you hit me –”

“Let me?” she retorts. “You’re the one who likes—”

“ _I’ll let you win_ ,” he says, hastily. “You’re right. Turrets don’t count.”

Shepard grins. “Of course I’m right. I’m _never_ wrong.” She considers. “Fine. If it gets you to stop whining.”

He chokes on his gratitude as she slides back onto him, bracing herself against his keel, bouncing in a way that makes him see stars. She takes his face in her hands, kissing him. It doesn’t take long. His back arches as he spills inside her, a moment that stretches on and on.

When he comes back to himself, gasping for breath, Shepard is staring at him. Well, actually, she’s staring at his hands, which are on her hips.

“You broke my _belt_ ,” she says, accusingly.

Garrus can’t argue with that. He shakes his wrist, letting the torn strip of leather fall to the floor. “Yeah. That – happened a while ago, actually.” In response to her glare, he says defensively, “I didn’t want to bring it up in case it ruined the mood. You didn’t want me to be able to use my hands, so …”

Shepard is fighting a smile. “And how am I supposed to wear my uniform now?”

“You could wear that dress instead,” he suggests, running his hand along her waist. “The tight black one. It’s very … commanding.”

She shrugs. “Why the hell not? Not like we ever seem to follow protocol.” She gets off him, hauls him up, prods him into moving over to the bed. She lies down beside him, throws an arm across his chest.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, Shepard mutters, “I still can’t believe we didn’t get that tech.”

“We’ll find a way,” Garrus says, firmly. “Cerberus is running scared, Shepard. You’re never on the back foot for long.”

She brings a hand up to stroke the scars on his face, a habit he sincerely hopes she’ll never lose. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, big guy.”

“Get chewed up by turrets,” he suggests. “ _Ow_! No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she says, letting go of his mandible. “You’re a real brat, Vakarian.”

Garrus, who hasn’t been called a brat since he was ten years old and demanding his sister give him a turn with their dad’s pistol, stares at her, speechless. Shepard smiles at him.

“Good thing I _like_ disciplining you,” she says. “Someone has to do it, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he stammers.

They lie there holding each other for what’s probably a long time, but feels terribly short. When she sits up, he mumbles a protest, reaching for her. She casts him an amused look. The dark circles under her eyes seem to be etched deeper every day.

“I really do have to make that report to Hackett,” she says. “He needs to know there might be a leak.”

“He can wait a little longer,” Garrus counters, knowing it’s a lost cause. He watches as she rolls her bad shoulder, wincing. The curve of her neck as she turns her back to him seems oddly fragile.

There are days it seems that the whole galaxy is resting on Shepard’s narrow human shoulders, that every organic life is hanging on the chain around her neck along with her dog-tags. If he can relieve her of even a little of that weight, he’ll do it. If he can be a refuge for her in the endless dark, he’ll do it. Whatever it takes.

He gets up, puts his mouth close to her ear. Purrs, “We should at least shower first.”

**Author's Note:**

> WHY DID I WRITE THIS. corona really has me sublimating my desires to tie someone up into writing weird porn, huh. this is really rough, i might edit it in the future. ok let me delete it from my computer now <3


End file.
